Is That Gargoyle With A 'Y' ?
by girl in the glen
Summary: It's a tough life for UNCLE agents, and the travel perks aren't everything you'd expect. Well, you'll see... Written for the PicFic at Section VII on LJ.


The afternoon sun was beating down on two men as they traipsed, or stumbled, through drifts of white sand. There were no clouds in the sky to offer a respite of shade to the pair, and against the backdrop of miles of undulating dunes they appeared as miniaturized versions of themselves. Or of something _like_ themselves.

Neither of them had a shirt, although the dark haired one was fortunate in that he still wore a sleeveless tee shirt; the kind often referred to as a muscle shirt. And he did have some muscles, although he couldn't be described as brawny.

The smaller of the two, the blond, was clad only in khaki trousers. His skin was uniformly red from too much exposure to the sun. While the other, Napoleon Solo, was of a light complexion, he seemed to have the advantage of some genetic propensity to tan rather than burn. Such could not be said for the Russian, Kuryakin. He was of that northern ilk that was better suited to snow and overcast conditions than the punishing sands and sun of the Sahara.

In the midst of their travels, conversation was limited in order to avoid breathing in the hot air. It tended to dry out a person more quickly than breathing through one's nose. Or so it seemed to Illya. He thought it reasonable, and besides, he had nothing to say.

Napoleon, on the other hand, felt as though a conversation might help them to keep going. There was an oasis up ahead; he was convinced of it. It had to be. There needed to be an oasis.

"Illya, I think I see something. I'm sure we're getting closer to…"

"Stop it!" This infuriating American was relentless in his pursuit of what was impossible. Illya's voice was raspy from the lack of moisture and his skin felt like hot coals had been scattered all over his body. He was also barefoot, making the trek over hot sand that much more unbearable.

Illya stopped and sank down into a small sand drift. It was pointless to continue on like this, and his dour Russian soul was prepared to give in to the capriciousness of whatever gods ordained his misery.

Napoleon joined his partner, unwilling to give up but equally disinclined to leave the Russian behind.

"Illya, listen to me. It looks bad…' _The blond was not so far gone that he couldn't send a withering glance_ _in the direction of his infuriatingly optimistic friend. "…_ All right, it is bad. But we can't stop now. I know there's an oasis up there; I'm positive that I saw it on the map in Renaldo's office."

Illya had pulled his knees up close to his chest and now he lay his head down on them, covering his hair with his hands in an effort to keep the sun from searing away the last of his brain cells. Napoleon strained to listen to his friend as he mumbled into the fabric of his trousers.

"I put the microdot in the mouth of a gargoyle in the Cathedral de Notre Dame. Reynaldo was right behind me and I had to do it quickly, before he could … before he caught me. It is …"

"Stop it. Don't tell me, we'll go and retrieve it together; you and me, Illya. We're going to get out of this and we will survive. We always do."

The Russian laughed at that; a hearty laugh that bordered on hysteria. This crazy American would be the only way he might survive this predicament.

"Bozhe moy… All right." Illya stood up and began to remove his trousers. He yanked at the zipper until it broke, and then proceeded to tear at the fabric until he had two pieces. Napoleon watched him then bind one leg around his left foot and then the other around his right, until both feet were adequately wrapped.

"You're going to have one hell of a sunburn on every part of your body."

"But I will not have any more blisters on my feet."

Napoleon shook his head, amazed at the ingenuity that desperation could inspire. "No. No, I don't suppose you will, tovarisch. Are you ready?"

The bleached head of hair bobbed in agreement. Illya stepped gingerly into the shadow of his partner as they began again, one step at a time marking the way towards the oasis that Napoleon knew he would find.

Two days later Solo and Kuryakin were no longer prisoners of the Sahara. They did find the oasis, something that the American would not soon relinquish as proof that his optimism warranted respect. Illya was able to communicate with a band of nomadic herdsmen in a dialect that was known by so few people that Napoleon thought it as miraculous as the oasis itself. The Russian's gift with languages was a tiebreaker in the competition for omens of luck. This time.

In the end, the agents were given clothing and camels for their journey back to civilization; it was a matter of a few hours before they were in contact with UNCLE once again, set up in a hotel and arranging for a return flight to Paris to retrieve the microdot that Illya had stashed in the mouth of a gargoyle.

"Are you sure you remember which gargoyle?"

The look Napoleon received could have cooled the desert they had just survived. If only it were that easy.

"Of course I remember. I just hope we don't run into Renaldo again. Is there any word on him yet?"

Napoleon leaned his head back and sighed. Some days they just couldn't catch a break. Surviving the Sahara was one thing, but catching the THRUSH who left them there…

"I take that as a 'No'. Very well, I shall just go back and get the microdot and hope no one is watching."

"You mean we, don't you? We will go and get the microdot." Now it was Illya's turn to sigh. As he closed his eyes and prepared to get a little sleep on the flight to Paris.

"It is on the outside ledge. I do not think there is room for both of us there. However, if you insist…"

Napoleon relented.

Having arrived at Notre Dame, Illya and Napoleon headed up to the level where the gargoyle, _and the microdot_, were located. So far there was no sign of Reynaldo, and the addition of several agents from the Paris office seemed to insure that trouble could be avoided. Illya wasn't positive that would be the case, but he was willing to go along with the plan. Better to have the men than to be vulnerable again to attack.

When they arrived at the correct level, Illya removed his coat and prepared to climb out to the parapet where the gargoyle was stationed. From this vantage point he could see all of Paris, and had a brief moment of déjà vu in which he felt himself compelled to swing out on the ropes of the belfry and announce himself to the city.

He shivered at the thought of it, aware that Napoleon was watching him with a strange look on his face. His years in Paris had been some of the Russian's favorites. Romance and madness.

Very well, time to accomplish the task. Illya climbed out onto the meager bit of stone on which he could find footing, and with one hand steadying him on the head of the gargoyle, he reached inside the mouth to retrieve the microdot.

"Got it."

Napoleon let out a breath that he had reserved for times like this. He was glad his partner was a gymnast, linguist… _jack of all trades_. It did tend to make his job just a little bit easier.

"Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin. I see you have, once again, gone to the trouble of finding my property for me. Now, please hand it over."

There was a gun in Napoleon's back. _How?_ Where were the men who were supposed to be watching for Reynaldo?

Illya was still on the ledge. He thought again of swinging from the ropes, although there weren't any ropes within his reach. Something else, then… Illya decided it wasn't worth it and began to dismount from the ledge. He had the microdot in his glove, and with his eyes on the man holding the gun on his partner; he slid from the ledge, carefully finding his footing on the stone flooring.

"There is no need for violence, Reynaldo. Here, take my glove and go. The microdot is inside." The Spaniard laughed, although his eyes remained impassive and cold.

"No, I do not think so. You have made me work too hard, Kuryakin. We finish it here." Reynaldo raised his gun to shoot the blond, but it never fired. From behind him a shot rang out as Reynaldo fell to the stone floor; the Paris agents had arrived in the proverbial _nick of time. _

In debriefing over this affair, it was noted that the men from New York were in need of medical attention for their severe sunburns, although they each agreed that the sooner they returned to New York, the better they would feel.

Illya, for one, wanted nothing more than to be in his own apartment and enjoy some rainy, cloudy weather. Being alone in an ice cold bath sounded perfect to the newly bleached blond agent.

Napoleon arranged for some TLC at the hands of Monica, who promised to be gentle as she massaged healing creams into the parched skin of the CEA. Each man had his own medicine.

Illya did manage to dream of Paris…


End file.
